Come January

Come January I’m not at my best.
The time of the year I’m put to the test.
Body swaddled in layers of clothing,
self-coddled I waddle, filled with self-loathing.
I look to the sky, it should be ash grey,
but it’s shamelessly blue, as if to say:
‘I’m just the backdrop, la mise en scène
for long summer days that will soon come again.’
Come Spring, comes the welcoming first sunny spell.
‘Cold comfort,’ I mutter, curling up in my shell.